


Bridge

by mcmanatea



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Friendship, M/M, Multi, Rebuilding Erebor, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcmanatea/pseuds/mcmanatea
Summary: Bilbo stays in Erebor on the slim hope that his presence will help bring Thorin back from the brink of death; he and Dwalin learn that the burden of loss is easier to endure when it is shared.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChaoticDemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticDemon/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to [Ruto](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/profile), [Mith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/profile), [Yubi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yubiwamonogatari/profile), and [Kitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/profile) for their invaluable beta assistance. This wouldn't be readable without them.

"I don't understand," Bilbo stated, voice flat.

Individually, the words Balin had just spoken — delivered with the calm assurance that had framed all of the older dwarf's pronouncements since the beginning of their acquaintance — made perfect sense. Yet in sequence, they rattled around Bilbo's head like coins in a tin can, refusing to arrange themselves in an order that made them any less preposterous. 

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the lines on the older dwarf’s face seemed more pronounced, the shadows beneath deeper, as though sorrow had carved new pathways through that kindly visage in only a few short days. Bilbo was thankful that this chamber, though well-appointed in most respects, contained no mirrors. He worried what changes this week might have wrought on his own features.

"It's just as I said, lad. Thorin lives, by the grace of Mahal. He does not wake, but he hasn’t returned to the stone, either,” Balin responded patiently.  

Bilbo shook his head, though whether to deny Balin's words or to physically shake away the muffled roar that was filling his ears, he could not have said. He licked his dry lips and tugged the sleeve of his moth-eaten coat convulsively, wanting very much to turn and walk out of the chamber; away from the stifling halls of Erebor; away from the pervasive stink of dragon and the the newer, oily stench of burning orc flesh; away from blood and despair and sympathetic silence and impossible occurrences. Yet he felt rooted to the floor: it was as though this news had turned his feet to lead, and he was helpless to do anything except weather it, for good or ill.

He cleared his throat against the ache that had gripped it since...well.

_ Since _ .

"I saw him, Balin. On the dais. I know what..." His words halted abruptly, despair rendering him momentarily dumb. Forcibly, he pushed aside thoughts that could not be visited now or here, with two sharp sets of eyes tracking his every twitch and grimace. The crushing, inescapable swell of loss would return, as it always did, but he would rather confront it in private. He had put his anguish on display quite enough for one day.

"What was all of...that, then? Today? The funeral, crowning Dáin?” Bilbo asked, his voice rising. “If Thorin is indeed alive, is he not still the king? Have you given away his birthright while he can't even defend it?" Dwalin shifted in the shadowed corner of the chamber. Bilbo’s eyes snapped to him, tense and expectant, but the expected denial did not come. 

Now that Bilbo had found his voice, though, the words poured out of him in a furious rush. “And what about Fíli and Kíli? You’re telling me that they, too, have somehow survived their injuries, but have  _ also _ been hidden away...by Thranduil, no less! As what...a favor? What on earth would Thorin think?! I suppose I should just march back into the Hall and _ ask _ him, since according to you he is  _ still somehow alive _ after that foolhardy suicidal stunt!”

Bilbo stopped, breathing hard against the sudden onslaught of rage pressing against his chest and threatening to burst out. He wasn't entirely certain what sort of response he expected; in truth, he was barely aware he was speaking at all. The sensation of being entirely separate from his own mind was familiar to him, but such was the nature of grief that his past experience lent him no succor. He only knew that he was overwhelmed, exhausted, and homesick, and had suffered enough heartache for a lifetime. Not enough time had passed for him to come to grips with all that he had seen and experienced, and it would be even longer before he could begin the slow process of stitching himself together again. Yet Balin’s words had opened a new wound, one he could never have prepared himself for.

There was no greater anguish than hope, once you were certain it was beyond reach.

Balin's face was so still that it could have been part of the mountain itself, with the flicker of torchlight playing in shadowed stone crevices. Bilbo couldn't follow that thought any further, however, because if he did he would not be able to stop himself from imagining three other faces - pale, sepulchral, wreathed in candlelight. The elderly dwarf took a step closer, his hand extended, and without thought Bilbo clutched the hilt of the sword at his side.

Dwalin moved between them so quickly and soundlessly that Bilbo stumbled backward in alarm, crashing into a tall floor candelabra and sending it — and himself — tumbling to the floor, while long-disused wax candles rolled in all directions. The chamber quieted until the only sounds were Bilbo's panting breaths and the almost-inaudible crackle of the torch. 

"That's enough, Bilbo. Yer tired, and you don’t know what yer doing. I'll take you somewhere you can rest." Dwalin leaned down to pull him up, but the hobbit pushed his feet against the floor and scooted away until he was just out of reach.  

"No. I can't. I can't stay. I know you’re going to ask me to, but I cannot do it. You are my friends. Please," he babbled. Dwalin continued to bend forward and slid one massive hand underneath Bilbo's arm, lifting him to his feet in one easy motion despite his protests. Once Bilbo was righted, Dwalin immediately stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. Bilbo rubbed the crook of his left elbow as though kneading away an ache, though both of them knew Dwalin hadn't touched it. Bilbo glared at a spot near the door. Dwalin glared at Bilbo.

Balin, ever the conciliator, placed a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder.

"No one is going to ask you to do anything today, of all days. Come, Dwalin. Bilbo is free to stay in this room, if he likes. We can speak again tomorrow, after we've all had time to rest." 

Dwalin didn't acknowledge the words directly, his hard stare still fixed on Bilbo's fidgeting fingers, but when Balin offered his farewells, he finally broke eye contact and stalked out after him without another word.

With Balin's careful wishes for a peaceful night's rest still echoing in his ears, Bilbo allowed his arms to drop heavily to his sides. He was desperately tired and distressed. Not even the long, hungry nights in the twilight realm of Thranduil's palace had made him ache so fervently for the warmth and familiarity of e4rhis own home. He stumbled to the nearest chair, a plush affair that had certainly once been fine but was now riddled with holes and coated with dust and ash, which exploded into the air as soon as he threw his weight into it. In the space of a heartbeat his surprised coughs became indistinguishable from his choked sobs. His newfound bravery, so dearly won, could not save him from this.

In that dark, soot-stained chamber deep in the mountain, a world away from all he had ever known, he finally allowed himself to surrender to the pull of grief.

 

* * *

He and Thorin were riding on horseback side-by-side. The sky was endless in the way it can only be in dreams, and Bilbo spied against the curved horizon a patch of enormous red poppies, each bloom as tall as a tree. He turned to point them out to Thorin, laughing, only to find that he was quite alone, and the flowers were spreading their petals wide, wider than he thought possible, until they pulled themselves off one by one and fell to the ground. They began spilling over the empty plain before him, and before he could take a breath to scream he was swept away in the flood. All around him barrels of laughing dwarves ignored his cries of terror while the cloying scent of funeral lilies and incense choked him.

Suddenly he was standing on Ravenhill, utterly disoriented. Thorin was there at the edge of the frozen waterfall, as tall and proud as Bilbo remembered, surveying the battle below. Bilbo called out, a rebuke on his lips, but when Thorin turned around his eyes were white as frost. The dwarf let out a pained groan as ared petals began pouring from his mouth; he fell to his knees with the force of their expulsion. Bilbo screamed and tried to run (away or toward, he couldn’t be sure), but he lost his footing and slid across the ice, careening toward the abyss. Dwalin watched him impassively, even as Bilbo reached out toward him. His left arm burned.

He woke with a shout, and Ori leapt back with a cry of his own. It took Bilbo a moment to come to his senses and realize that he had fallen asleep in the chair, and that the pain he had felt was merely candle wax that Ori had clumsily dripped on his exposed wrist.

Between profuse apologies, Ori informed him that his presence was requested in Thorin's chamber. Bilbo replied that he would be along momentarily, after he’d had a moment to collect himself, and Ori bowed deeply before scurrying out of the room without another word. Perhaps Dwalin had told him about the sword incident? Bilbo pulled his coat more tightly around his middle, and felt the pulsing throb of dread in his belly swell. He didn't know what would happen, only that it would alter the course of his life once more.

 

* * *

 

The lack of candles and flowers was incredibly reassuring.

Perhaps some lingering horror from his dream had shaped his expectations, made him envision something more frightening. But the dwarf he knew so well looked very much as he remembered him, dressed in a simple blue tunic and grey trousers, his hair loose but for his customary braids. The Arkenstone had been removed, as had his sword. His hands were now placed at his sides instead of folded over his breast in ceremonial repose. Bilbo wondered idly where the armor, crown, and other finery had been moved to, but didn't care enough to go back into the hallway to ask Balin. Besides, he preferred to see Thorin this way, without all the unfamiliar and ill-fitting trappings of royalty. 

Nevertheless, it was unsettling to see Thorin lying so motionless after being told that he was not, in fact, actually dead.

Bilbo had seen both of his parents laid to rest, though the loss of his mother was an event that he didn't dare contemplate for even a moment; the pain was still too near.  But he remembered entering the empty hall at Tuckborough and seeing the curve of his father's profile just barely visible over the edge of the pine box at the front of the room. He recalled the sick, creeping sense of wrongness, gazing upon a form that was so dear but now looked utterly alien, and his foolish hope that Bungo would rise again as though from sleep, sitting up and clucking about how the day shouldn't be wasted on sleeping when there were seeds to sow and books to read.

The knowledge that Thorin could very well do that very thing was unsettling. Terror from his nightmare still clung to him, and he could not shake the worry that if Thorin ever did wake again, he would not be the same as he was. Perhaps his being alive at all was an aberration, some evil remnant of dragon magic. Or perhaps the dwarves were maddened with grief and only thought Thorin alive, when he had in fact already gone to his Maker's halls, and this farce was an affront to his memory. He certainly didn't _ look _ very alive to Bilbo right now. His chest did not rise or fall, his eyes did not move beneath his lids, and his skin held a slightly greyish hue.

Yet when Bilbo dared to touch his hand — glancing around furtively to ensure that he was alone before doing so — it wasn't cold and stiff like his parents' had been. It was cool, yes, but pliant. Thorin's face was slack and smooth, but it wasn't quite the horrible rictus the hobbit feared.

On the quest, Thorin's brow had almost always been furrowed for one reason or another: deep thought, irritation, worry. On the rare and brilliant occasions that he laughed, his eyes had creased most becomingly. He was not a young dwarf; his long life had been shaped by hardship, and his features reflected that. It was discomfiting to see his countenance so relaxed now, the customary sharpness blurred at the edges, but now that Bilbo was near enough to study him closely, there seemed to be an almost indiscernible spark of vitality...something he could not precisely put his finger on, except that Thorin did not look as he expected someone dead to look.

Gently, he turned Thorin's wrist over and ran a finger over the star-shaped mark at the base of his thumb. There was no movement or acknowledgement of the contact, as he had half-feared. (He wondered if the dwarves that knew their secret had expected otherwise.) It was still new to him, this freedom to touch Thorin in such a manner. In Laketown, conversations about the Seven Fathers and bonds and and soul marks had been set aside in favor of strategy and supplies. Their odd connection had barely been acknowledged for a week before the goldsickness had cast its pall over them. Not for the first time, Bilbo cursed Thorin's skewed sense of priorities, and his entirely misplaced optimism about the success of their venture.

There was no question that he was going to stay now, if for no other reason to tell Thorin exactly that when he woke.

 

* * *

 

Thus began Bilbo's strange new life in Erebor. Balin explained Thorin’s condition as best he could, and Bilbo’s part in it, cautioning him not to share it with other dwarves. Any ill-doers who had come to Erebor could easily use Bilbo or even Thorin himself to sow chaos. Bilbo privately thought that any sane person hearing tales of kings brought back from the brink of death by mysterious birthmarks would think him mad anyway, so it was not difficult to keep the information to himself.

Dáin Ironfoot, son of Náin, newly-crowned King Under the Mountain, tolerated Bilbo’s presence with good grace. He was a jovial sort, boisterous and quick to joke, but also shrewd and cunning. He seemed pleased (or at least not frightened) by the idea that his predecessor was currently lying in a closed-off corridor of the former Royal Wing, somehow alive despite being run through with an orc's blade. He accepted Balin’s personal reassurances that neither Thorin nor his nephews would challenge Dáin’s right to rule, should they awaken. The Lady Dís continued to reside in Ered Luin; if they recovered, her sons would join her there. Thorin, Balin promised, would likewise find a settlement further West to call home. It would be enough for him to know that Erebor was in the hands of dwarves once more, free at last from the clutches of Smaug. Bilbo privately wondered if anyone could hold Thorin to such a promise (should he wake), but prudently didn't share his doubts with anyone else.

Possessing neither the stamina nor strength of a dwarf, Bilbo was not very helpful in clearing rubble or assisting directly in rebuilding efforts.  His inability to read or write Khuzdul limited his usefulness in the library, as well. He worried that he would become a burden, but the Company assured him that his presence alone was of great comfort to them. To keep from getting underfoot, the bulk of his days were spent in the same chamber that he had slept in the night of Thorin's funeral. Most of the old furnishings had been removed or replaced, and it was beginning to accumulate odd bric-a-brac that his friends brought to him as they sorted through the ruins of Smaug's occupation. Paintings, interesting figurines, books in Westron, and an assortment of items bearing floral motifs made their way into his new room, and he was warmed by their thoughtfulness as much as the comforting clutter. Being a hobbit of middle age and some means, he was unused to an austere existence, and though none of the trinkets held the familiarity of his own family heirlooms, he cherished them nonetheless.

He awakened one morning to a thunderous knock, and fearful that they were under attack, threw open the door with Sting in hand only to find Dwalin with an enormous oak desk upon one shoulder and fist still raised in the air. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, carved with intricate geometric motifs, and Bilbo was grateful that Dwalin had considered his need for it when there was so much else to be done around the kingdom. He told Dwalin as much while the burly dwarf placed the desk against the wall (exactly where Bilbo would have wanted it, had he had the wherewithal to ask), but the only response had been a grunt.

When Dwalin returned a few hours later with stacks of slightly-yellowed parchment, a dusty ink bottle, and several frayed quills, Bilbo stopped him with a hand on his bicep before he could stomp back to wherever his brother had posted him for the day. He started, obviously not expecting the touch, but he didn't dislodge Bilbo's soft grip.

"Thank you, Dwalin. Balin mentioned that some of Dáin’s men would be delivering letters to Dwarven settlements in the West. Do you think any of them would be willing to stop in The Shire? I’d like to settle of some of my affairs there, since I left without making any arrangements for my home or businesses."

Dwalin pursed his lips for a moment before answering. "I’ll have a man for ye before supper."

"Oh no, it doesn’t have to be..." Bilbo began.

“Ye left yer home and saved our arses every step of the way here. And then ye stayed for Thorin,” Dwalin interjected. “Delivering a letter is the least we can do for ye.”

“It wasn’t only for Thorin. It was for you...for  _ all _ of you. So...yes. Before supper. Thank you again.” With a nod, Dwalin escaped the little chamber to return to the Great Hall, leaving Bilbo to wonder if the slight burning in his hand was coincidental, or if Dwalin had felt it, too.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo often visited Thorin when slumber eluded him. Sometimes he brought his writing materials and worked there in comfortable silence. Sometimes he cried and begged and raged, recounting the many sorrows that the dwarf had brought upon them all with his foolishness. Sometimes he spoke to him about the goings-on of Erebor.

He kept him up-to-date on what the Company was doing, how they were each contributing to the reconstruction. He never mentioned Fíli or Kíli, except to say that they were enjoying the hospitality of the Elf King, and that regular reports were sent to ensure that they were behaving. (In truth, those missives were addressed to Óin only, and contained curt updates on the excruciatingly slow recovery of the two brothers. That they still lived was another miracle, one that was perhaps even more astounding than Thorin's, but Bilbo did not want to burden him with such news when he was still hovering in the grey space between worlds.)

Though they had never spoken about it or consciously planned it such, he and Dwalin were never at Thorin's bedside at the same time. On the single occasion their paths had crossed, Bilbo hadn't even fully opened the door to Thorin's chamber before he realized that he was not alone. It was well after midnight, as far as he could tell in the murky dark of the mountain, and his sleep had been restless and disturbed.

He stopped at the threshold, brought up short by the sight of Dwalin clutching Thorin's hand with his face haggard and wet in the wan light. The low murmur of Khuzdul was plaintive and heartbreaking. Even without knowing what was being said, the obvious agony brought tears to Bilbo's eyes, as it echoed his own. It took everything in him not to step fully into the chamber and go to Dwalin; to lay his hand over the lopsided star on his shoulder that mirrored the one on Thorin’s hand and Bilbo’s arm; to mourn with the only other person in all of Arda who might understand how it felt to live with part of their soul carved out; the hollow, aching loneliness of their love being so close and yet beyond their reach, perhaps forever.

They had never learned to care for each other they way they did for Thorin. He was the center point, and each of them kept him tethered to this life in their way, but no bridge existed between them without him. Thorin had mentioned it only offhandedly, the connection between himself and his old friend, but Dwalin had never treated Bilbo with any more warmth than he treated his other comrades, so Bilbo was unsure about the exact nature of what was between them, if there was anything at all. 

It wasn’t until now, in this moment so intimate that he was almost ashamed to have witnessed it, that Bilbo realized what a fool he had been, how his unwillingness to see beyond his shuttered views of what was “expected” had robbed both himself and Dwalin of much-needed solace. 

He had hoarded his love for Thorin jealously, never acknowledging that someone else’s misery could be as great as his own or that the burden could be shared. And the strongest dwarf that Bilbo knew, the other part of Thorin’s soul, was reduced to this - sobbing in the dark over the man he was mourning because the only person who could understand his pain was too much of a coward to comfort him.

Bilbo resolved to change that, but not until the morrow. He was too shaken to marshal his thoughts that night, and instead he crept out of the room silently, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Dwalin never mentioned it, and Bilbo preferred to believe that his presence had gone unnoticed.

 

* * *

 

Joint visits were excruciatingly awkward affairs, at the beginning. Bilbo felt like an intruder every time he entered Thorin's room and Dwalin was already there. Countless hours of polite tea conversations with putrid relatives were no help in this situation; he actually  _ wanted _ to become more comfortable in Dwalin's presence, and vice versa. For the first several days he chattered nervously about anything that came to his head. After receiving no reply save an impassively-raised eyebrow, he despaired of ever finding common ground, and remained silent for the next few visits. This seemed to suit Dwalin just fine; the dwarf spoke to Thorin in their own tongue, and Bilbo pretended not to be straining to recognize any familiar word, while trying to keep his hands and mind occupied so as not to interrupt.

Occasionally, Dwalin would laugh over some shared memory in his one-sided conversations with Thorin, and Bilbo would eagerly look up from whatever he was doing, hoping to be let in on the joke. Noticing this, the dwarf would share whatever had amused him, and even when cultural differences kept Bilbo from fully appreciating the jest, he still laughed along and plied Dwalin for more tales. Bilbo started chiming in with his own stories when he could, and thus a tentative exchange began. Bilbo considered it just as thrilling an accomplishment to make Dwalin crack a smile as he did Thorin. Though he was not nearly as serious as his brother or cousin, his humor was that of a soldier, crass and often bloodthirsty, and Bilbo sometimes struggled to find mutually interesting conversation. Luckily food, drink, and children were all safe topics, as Dwalin possessed enormous fondness for all three.

Over time, Dwalin relaxed somewhat around Bilbo, perhaps deciding that these daily intrusions were not only a passing fancy. His deliberately provocative anecdotes began to dwindle, and he spoke more candidly about Balin, their upbringing in Erebor, and how he had come to be the personal guard of the Prince. Bilbo was always attentive, happy to learn more about his adopted home from a less historical perspective than books or Balin could provide. There were misunderstandings, naturally, but as winter began to melt into spring, they learned more about each other than they ever had on their journey to the mountain, and had found much to admire. At the core of their budding friendship was a mutual respect for the other's bravery and skills, and an unspoken commitment to bringing Thorin back to the land of the living.

Time, or their shared visits (Bilbo was still skeptical on this point), had wrought a remarkable change in the unconscious dwarf after only a few weeks. His breathing, once nearly undetectable, began to deepen. At the same time, his color started to return: first to his face and chest, then creeping outward incrementally day by day, a slow flush that Bilbo and Dwalin watched avidly and that seemed to please Óin as much as anything could. By the end of spring none of the sickly pallor remained, and Thorin looked as healthy and hale as he ever had, though he still did not awaken. Nevertheless, his progress was undeniable, and for the first time his two dearest friends began to imagine a future where the three of them could finally discuss the next stage of their lives together face-to-face. It seemed wrong to makes plans while Thorin was still unable to offer his input, but as they each held a warm hand and smiled at each other over his prone-but-strengthening form, it felt like anything might be possible.

 

* * *

Bilbo was unsure when his letters might arrive in the Shire and Rivendell, respectively. The returning dwarves were in the process of training ravens to carry messages quickly across Arda, but his had gone out with the first caravans to Ered Luin, so he was not expecting speedy replies. He still found it utterly daft that dwarves relied on birds to deliver important correspondence; for all they knew, the wretched beasts lined their nests with them as soon as they were out of sight!

It was a surprise, then, when a travel-worn envelope arrived in mid-summer, delivered to him at Thorin's bedside by Balin while Dwalin was out training the new guards. He set aside the trousers he had been patching, eager for some diversion and conversation. Bilbo recognized the curling, stylized handwriting of one of his kin, though he couldn't tell the sender solely by the script.

"Oh, thank you, Balin! I'd nearly forgotten about the letters I sent in winter!" he exclaimed, taking the paper in hand and breaking the wax seal. "I hope the Thain was able to sort out Bag End without too much interference from busybody relations. I'm sure I've told you about the Sackville-Baggins before..." he trailed off as he began to read, and Balin remained silent. Something about the slump of his shoulders suggested that he was waiting for ill news.

The blood drained rapidly from Bilbo's face as he skimmed through the rest of the message. He looked up at his solemn friend with wide, panicked eyes.

"I've been declared legally dead. I have to go home, immediately."

 

* * *

 

"What do ye mean, yer leaving?!" Dwalin shouted, his voice carrying through the thick wooden door of Thorin's chamber and out into the hallway, where the rest of the Company gathered anxiously.

"They think I'm  _ dead _ , Dwalin. I  _ must _ go back. All of my worldly possessions, my home, my garden...my entire life! I must set things to right. I'll return once my affairs are in order, and I've given stewardship of Bag End to a trusted relative." Bilbo's tone was reasonable, but desperation and worry were creeping in, driven by  the need to make Dwalin understand that he didn't  _ want _ to go, but that nothing except his presence would assuage the Thain (or his greedy cousins).

 

"And what if ye don't return? What if he dies while yer squabbling over dishes and bed linens? We have gold enough here to build ye a new hole in the ground." He barrelled on despite Bilbo's offended scoff, "We could send caravans for yer belongings. Why must it be now, just when he's starting to come back to us? Just when..." The angry tirade ceased as quickly as it came, forced back into the pained and embarrassed silence of their first awkward interactions. With a pointed glare, he flung himself into the seat at Thorin's bedside, taking one unmoving hand in his own and conspicuously avoiding Bilbo's wounded expression. 

"Dwalin, please. This is already difficult enough. Please don't force us to part like his," Bilbo begged.  

"I'm not forcing ye to do anything at all. We don't need ye here. We'll probably manage even better without another mouth to feed."

With this cruel dismissal, he turned his face away from Bilbo entirely, focusing on Thorin's profile with such intensity that Bilbo wondered if he wasn't trying to will him into waking from the force of his glare alone. Any arguments Bilbo could muster would only serve to drive them further apart, and he wanted to preserve what shreds of camaraderie and warmth he could, to sustain him for the long journey ahead. He backed out of the room slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

 

* * *

 

The night before his departure, Bilbo snuck into Thorin's chamber once again. Some part of him had feared Dwalin would be standing guard tonight to prevent this very thing, but it seemed that even the indefatigable Captain of the Guard needed his rest. It was a relief to be able to remove the little golden ring and tuck in back into his pocket. It was ever so useful for getting out of (and into) tricky situations, but he wanted to gaze upon Thorin as he was, not enveloped in creeping grey shadows. 

So much had changed, and yet it felt like the first time he had seen his dear friend after the mock funeral. Like then, Bilbo’s head was muddled with too many thoughts and feelings to pick out any one of them. Also like then, he was unsure about what returning to the Shire would mean for him. The chief difference, he thought, was that during that cold, dark winter, he had worried that heartache and grief would shadow the rest of his days, that he would never be able to free himself of the nightmares about the battle or the guilt of leaving Thorin to his half-life. Now he feared that the bright light and soft, rolling hills of the Shire would beguile him and cause him to forget, to make his life in Erebor seem like a dream. 

_ This, though _ , he thought as he took Thorin’s hand in his own,  _ This is the realest thing I have ever known _ .

He pressed his lips gently against the spot just above Thorin’s wrist. A mark that, on its own, meant everything and nothing. Perhaps it tied the three of them together so deeply that it transcended death, as the dwarves believed. Perhaps it was a coincidence, an accident of birth that they tried to ascribe meaning to in order to make sense of their sometimes confusing and contradictory feelings about each other, and it was only Thorin’s innate stubbornness that was bringing him back to them. Maybe it was neither.

Bilbo preferred to think of it as a guide; an indelible map that would bring them all back where they belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep an eye on this story on Christmas Day ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Christmas epilogue for you ;)

It was almost like a dream, walking through Erebor's halls after being away for so long. Corridors that Bilbo remembered navigating when they were still strewn with rubble were now clear, and walls once blackened with soot had been scrubbed clean, revealing finely-carved geometric reliefs. Had he not traveled this particular path so many times before, he might have worried that he was lost. His memory served him well, however, and within moments he stood before a familiar wooden door.

Somehow he knew what he would find. Serendipity, or Fate, or perhaps just plain old luck, always seemed to draw them both back to this place.

Just as last time, Dwalin sat by Thorin's bedside, holding one hand in his own. Thorin appeared unchanged, but Dwalin seemed a little older, his face more lined, his beard shot through with white. The resemblance to Balin was more pronounced than ever before.

Bilbo, too, had undergone a transformation since his departure. He was leaner and harder than when he left; traveling alone had been great deal more perilous than tagging along with a troupe of dwarves. Before meeting with a caravan traveling East, he had spent many nights with one eye open and Sting at his side — a poor bedfellow, indeed, for a Hobbit of gentle birth.

This night, however, Bilbo did not hesitate to enter the chamber and cross it to join Dwalin at Thorin's side. And quite unlike their last meeting, Dwalin turned to face him, his face open and vulnerable. He did not rise from his chair, but scooped Bilbo — still standing — against his side with his free hand as soon as he was near, a messy and unplanned catch. Bilbo's arms enfolded Dwalin's shoulders as if by instinct, and they held each other like they had never dared to before, the invisible barriers that had always separated friend from something _more_ melted away by the dual impetuses of distance and longing.

Dwalin murmured apologies into Bilbo's dusty shirt. Bilbo said nothing, only moved one hand to the back of the dwarf's scarred head and held him closer. Perhaps he should have changed out of his traveling clothes, but some things could not be delayed for lack of a perfectly-tied cravat. There would be time later for propriety, for tales of his journey to the Shire and back again, for explanation and remonstration and all the things they had missed during their unexpected separation.

For now, they were simply together again, the three of them, the way it was always meant to be.

And for the first time in many, many days, unnoticed for the moment but soon to throw their worlds into upheaval again, blue eyes blinked slowly open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! If I find some time later down the road I might continue this story somehow, but I hope this is a satisfying ending on its own.
> 
> For those curious about what happened, Bilbo was able to wrestle Bag End (and most of his possessions) back from certain greedy relatives, and at the time he returned to Erebor everything was being looked after by a more-favored cousin. 
> 
> After Thorin regained enough strength to travel, the three of them traveled to Ered Luin to visit Dís, Fíli and Kíli. They stayed for a short while, but eventually made their way back to The Shire, where Bilbo delighted in the scandalized reactions to his new companions. 
> 
> And they lived happily ever after :3
> 
> Endless thanks to [Ruto](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/profile) for the last-minute beta <3
> 
> Happy Holidays, all!


End file.
